


Pieces of Confession

by TheFriendliestPunk



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Local Bastard Develops Feelings, Love Confessions, Major Character Injury, Mind Control, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:28:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFriendliestPunk/pseuds/TheFriendliestPunk
Summary: Tav and Astarion find a rare moment of peace in their search for Cazador only to realize Astarion is not as far out of his former master's reach as he thought. Pitted against each other in a desperate battle, Tav scrambles for a way to break the vampire's compulsion before it's too late.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	Pieces of Confession

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [a dream prompt](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/746292) by Beckiboos. 



> I just really wanted to write a fic about Astarion, a.k.a. my favorite chaotic evil Bottom with control issues. Special thanks to my friend Rachel for beta reading. Enjoy my exploration of a vampire fetish I didn't know I had until this god-forsaken game.

I wake to Astarion’s voice murmuring my name. My eyes open slowly, groggily, to see a field of dashing white curls, fuchsia eyes, and a grin laced with mischief.

Embarrassment flushes my cheeks. _Shit, I hadn’t meant to fall asleep._ Ever since our first night together before we got to Baldur’s Gate, our…ahem…nightly excursions have become a regular thing. It’s a simple routine: wait for the others to fall asleep, slip off into the shadows to have our fun, and come back before it gets light. The anonymity in the city, particularly at night, has proven an ally in the days since we arrived.

I move to sit up, but Astarion’s lean frame remains immobile, pinning me to my bedroll.

“Are you still up for some exploring?” he whispers in my ear. The rumble in his voice elicits a shiver and goosebumps on my arms.

I meet Astarion’s gaze, twin abysses ringed in pink that rove over me hungrily, practically glowing in the dark.

“Oh hells yes.”

Astarion’s grin quirks up on one side. He rises and offers me a hand up beside him. I accept, keeping our fingers linked as we hurry out into the hall, breaking into a jog once we’re out of earshot from the others. I can’t help but laugh as we fly down the hallway, footsteps singing in staccato against the floor. Astarion doesn’t join in my jubilee—unrestrained joy is a rarity from him, I’ve learned—but his features lose their sharpness around the edges.

We finally slow once we reach a flight of stairs up to the second floor. Astarion releases my hand, letting me ascend first, but I still feel his gaze on me as we climb.

“It seems poetic, in a way, that we’re staying in one of Cazador’s old haunts while we hunt him down.” Astarion sounds faintly amused. “Although I hadn’t anticipated he would let this place fall into such disrepair.”

I can’t help but agree. After so many stories of Cazador’s status in Baldur’s Gate, seeing one of his mansions with neglected gardens and the interior coated in dust is the antithesis of what I pictured. I half expected to walk in the door and have him waiting for us, villain’s cape ready to swish dramatically and a speech prepared, but so far the scariest thing here has been Gale’s allergies.

I pause long enough to turn back, pull Astarion in by his half-unbuttoned collar, and kiss him. Astarion lets out a muffled grunt of surprise against my lips. He reciprocates easily, keeping one hand clasped on my waist as I pull back.

“We will find him,” I vow. “I’m sure we can find some clues to his whereabouts in here.”

“Yes, most certainly. Tomorrow.” The lustful edge to Astarion’s voice is hard to miss.

“Tomorrow,” I agree, feeling a sly smirk of my own emerging. “I have something much more fun in mind for tonight.”

We emerge on the landing into another hallway lined with closed doors on either side. I take in the expanse of discolored white walls, barren of decoration or personal touch. It reminds me of the old houses in horror books I used to steal and read in secret; it’s not the sort of place I would want to venture alone.

My thoughts are disrupted when Astarion grabs me from behind and kisses my shoulder where the tunic has fallen askew, apparently growing impatient. I turn around only for him to thrust me back against the wall, stealing my breath in surprise before I regain the wherewithal to kiss him back. The tension in my lower belly is growing with just as much urgency. I claim his lips in a series of rough kisses before drawing back for air.

“In here.” I kick open the nearest door and pull us both inside.

Astarion relinquishes me just long enough to shut the door behind him before pinning me against the wall again, his body flush against mine. His fingers slip beneath my tunic, sliding up—his skin is cool to the touch, as one would expect from a vampire, but it merely heightens every sensation. I tremble with each subtle shift he makes. I work my way down the rest of the buttons on Astarion’s shirt, or rather attempt to, before the third one gets stuck and I growl in frustration.

Astarion’s hands move up to help.

“So impatient,” he quips, pupils somehow blown even wider than before. He is panting just as hard.

“You are not one to talk.”

“Then let’s talk less.”

Happy to oblige, I yank Astarion’s shirt from his shoulders. It falls in a satisfying heap on the floor. Astarion’s pale skin shimmers in the moonlight filtering in from a window. It highlights the taut muscles in his shoulders, sloping in defined marble curves that soften ever so slightly around his abdomen. I skate my fingertips along his sides, pausing occasionally just to tease. I relish the way Astarion’s stomach quivers.

Astarion kisses me hard. I feel something split when he nips my bottom lip, fangs penetrating skin, a subtle tang of copper filling my mouth. Astarion’s tongue swipes along the wound to claim my blood for himself. That single action seems to set every nerve in my body alight. Astarion swallows my moan greedily into another kiss, nudging my thighs apart with his knee, pressing gently. Sweet, blessed friction, but not nearly enough to satisfy. I nearly collapse into his shoulder.

“Now you’re just being mean,” I whisper, but Astarion’s roguish laugh is lost to my ears when an object across the room catches my attention.

_Something isn’t right._ I stiffen, gaze fixed over Astarion’s shoulder.

He notices my hesitation and pulls back, trying to catch my eye.

“Something the matter, darling?” His expression morphs from perplexed to concerned when I slowly extricate myself from him and move towards a table draped in white on the opposite side of the room.

The object that greets me is a polished silver chain with a small prism clasped onto one of the links. It reminds me of a sending crystal we came across at a high-end merchant stall the other day, a way to speak to someone and hear their voice in return over great distances. But that can’t be; sending crystals come in pairs. This one would be useless on its own.

“Usurped by a shiny rock. Not exactly how I pictured this evening,” Astarion says, his tone light but his brow furrowed in annoyance.

“No, Astarion. Look around.” The realization hits me like a shield bash to the face and I gesture to the room at large. “This is the only thing in the whole place that isn’t covered in dust. This was put here recently.”

I suppose it’s no surprise we missed it. We only did a thorough enough sweep of the building when we arrived to make sure we didn’t have unexpected housemates. Still, the sight of the crystal makes my skin crawl.

Astarion sobers instantly. He closes the rest of the distance between us, hovering at my shoulder to examine the item for himself. He hums under his breath.

“So, we could leave the very suspicious-looking crystal until morning, or we could figure out what it does,” Astarion muses, the eagerness in his voice betraying which vote he would cast.

“When have we ever thought that far ahead?” I return Astarion’s smirk and pick up the chain, cradling the crystal in my palm. It feels warm to the touch. But before I can voice my revulsion, a voice carries through the crystal, low and authoritative.

“Astarion, pet? Is that you?”

Astarion doesn’t respond, shifting on the balls of his feet as he stares expectantly into my face.

“Well?” he prompts.

“You didn’t hear that?”

Frowning, Astarion shakes his head.

“Ah. And who might you be?” The voice takes on a far more drawling quality, meant to soothe, meant to lure.

All the pieces fit together. My blood runs cold.

“Cazador?”

Astarion’s face contorts with rage. He snatches the crystal from my hand, stalking several paces away before holding it up to his face.

“What do you want?” he snarls. I cannot hear what the response is, but Astarion somehow goes even paler. He raises the crystal in his fist, about to smash it on the ground, but just before it leaves his palm, the chain springs into motion and winds tight around his wrist like a shackle.

Astarion lets out a violent curse and tries to tug it free. It doesn’t budge. Whatever Cazador says next tinges the rage in Astarion’s eyes with desperation.

“No! I won’t hurt them!” Astarion is shaking his head now, backing away from me.

“Astarion? What’s happening?” I plead.

Astarion is panting hard, seeming to hold himself immobile with great difficulty. His fangs are clenched so tightly against his lip that blood dribbles down his chin. His eyes go vacant before refocusing, struggling to remain in control, and then I finally understand. Even an ilithid can’t override a vampire master’s thrall. 

“Run!” Astarion bellows, then lunges at me with fangs bared.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If there’s one thing I won’t miss once we get to Baldur’s Gate, it’s nighttime lookout duty. Turns out sleeping in shifts isn’t optimal for someone who needs ten hours minimum to be coherent in the morning. It does, however, allow for peace and quiet without the expectation of traveling every waking minute. I watch the first streaks of color emerge on the horizon, letting the fading song of crickets lull me so deeply that Astarion’s voice nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

I look around to find him still asleep in his bedroll, or at least he appears to be, but his eyes roll behind closed lids and his hands jerk aimlessly at his sides. He cries out mostly unintelligible gibberish, but I think I catch the words _master_ and _please._

Concern growing, I consider waking Astarion up, but he leaps to his feet a moment later, eyes wild with fear.

“No! Back!” he snarls, lowering his hands when recognition dawns in his face, but the fear is no less present.

I hold my hands out in a gesture of placation but don’t dare touch him. Something tells me that a gentle hand on the shoulder is more likely to get me bitten than to calm him down.

“Woah, it’s okay. You’re in camp. You’re safe,” I say. I’m convinced at first that Astarion didn’t hear me at all; his eyes dart wildly around the clearing, searching for something and growing no less panicked when it isn’t there.

“ _Safe?_ Nowhere is safe!” Astarion’s breaths come in harsh, shallow gasps. And when his voice breaks, a piece of my heart does, too. It’s rare to see cracks in Astarion’s suave exterior and even more disarming to see him so vulnerable.

“I need you to slow your breathing. You’re going to hyperventilate,” I tell him carefully.

Astarion shakes his head, but he does make a clear effort to take deep breaths, one at a time. Awareness returns to his expression in waves. “I can’t even close my eyes without—without seeing him. Cazador,” he says.

 _Oh._ A familiar pang of helplessness courses through my chest. I’m not unfamiliar with the terror of nightmares. Nor that of returning to memories best left forgotten. An image of the Nautiloid ship pervades my mind.

“Would you like to talk it over? Sometimes that helps when I have nightmares,” I offer.

The vulnerability in Astarion’s expression morphs to barbs of annoyance in a snap. He fixes me with a glare.

“Why in the world would I want to relive that again? Leave me be,” Astarion snaps. “And I’ll ask you not to tell me to relax the next time I wake up screaming.”

The words sting, but I know that is their design. A defense meant to poke anyone who gets too close. I force down my frustration.

Astarion seems to have finally calmed, but he makes no move to lay back down again. Doubtful he’ll go back to sleep for a while.

I glance down at the rest of our traveling companions. Other than Wyll stretching in his sleep, no one else has stirred. I face Astarion again and tilt my head towards the fallen log where I held my previous vigil.

“Want to keep watch with me?” I ask.

Astarion looks at me for a long moment, expression indecipherable, before nodding. He settles on the ground, back resting against the log and head tilted towards the sky. He does not look at me when I approach, nor do either of us say anything for a long time.

Eventually, once the cricket song moves to the forefront of my mind again, a question emerges without warning.

“Astarion?”

“Hm?”

“Do you believe in love?”

Astarion explodes into a bout of mad cackling, doubling over beside me. Bewildered, I can only watch him until he comes back to himself and fixes me with a gaze of incredulity.

“You’re serious?” he asks, sobering.

Suddenly embarrassed, I bite my lip and turn away. A long moment of silence passes between us.

“No, I don’t believe in love,” Astarion replies, sincerely this time. “I think people have their own interests. Sometimes they coincide, and sometimes the foolish think that’s called love.”

 _Well, that’s a bit…grim._ I come at the topic from a different direction.

“Humor me, then. If love, _true_ love really existed, what do you think it would look like?” I ask.

Astarion turns still as stone. He cranes his neck back to look me in the eye, guarded curiosity in his gaze. I meet his challenge this time, searching those pools of fuchsia turned blood red in the coming sunrise. Astarion looks away first.

“You are a strange one,” he says quietly. “I have no idea. I suppose I can only say what it wouldn’t be.”

I let my gaze wander over Astarion’s sleep-rumpled white curls as he stares out past the clearing. I decide not to press further, but for all Astarion’s prickliness before, he does not try to hide the sadness in his eyes this time. All his barriers break away one by one.

“Cazador called us his muses. He was a prolific poet, used to carve his verses into our flesh. Said he’d turn us into art.” Astarion forces a laugh, but it doesn’t last. He falters for a long moment. “He once spent all night with a razor, drafting and redrafting a sonnet on my back. Apparently the more I screamed, the more mistakes he made. And the more editing was required.”

Something hot and vile settles in my stomach. Even the mental image makes me shudder.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmur.

“Save your pity,” Astarion snaps, and suddenly the spikes are back, a shield and a warning in one.

“Not pity.” I swallow my feelings down. “Anger. You deserved so much better.”

A beat of silence stretches for eons as Astarion turns to face me. There is true surprise written on his face and it turns his features to something softer, gentler. I find myself enraptured as Astarion fumbles for words.

“I…well, you can’t just ask me something like that and not answer it yourself,” he says after some time.

“What?”

“Love,” Astarion adds impatiently. “Surely you don’t believe in such things.” He sounds so certain, but there is wariness in his eyes as he scrutinizes me.

I brace my hands on my knees.

“I do, actually.”

Astarion scoffs.

“I hadn’t taken you for a romantic,” he says scathingly. “How sentimental.”

“No, really,” I insist, keeping my gaze fixed on my hands.

Astarion goes quiet.

“I think the purest expression of love is simpler than people think. It’s just someone’s desire to coexist with someone else, in whatever way they can, for as much as the other wants to give.”

I bite my lip, feeling Astarion trace the movement with his eyes. Time seems to slow when I meet his gaze again.

“Love is just the giving.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My heart leaps into my throat when Astarion charges, fighting with literal tooth and nail. He swings in wide arcs, scratching aimlessly in my direction, eyes devoid of recognition or any emotion except hunger. I try with all my willpower to stand my ground. I do. But it is hard not to feel like prey when staring him down. All I can do is back out of reach, arms raised protectively before my face.

_Think, dammit! Think!_ For a horrifying moment, the thought occurs that the only way to free Astarion from Cazador’s thrall is a sword through the neck. _As for me, I’m going to survive. No matter what it takes._ Astarion’s words ring in my head, a prayer and a battle cry. I shove the idea aside.

Astarion lunges in close while I’m distracted and swipes his nails along my forearm. Blood carves a rivulet down to my elbow. The scent drives Astarion mad; he moves even faster, landing glancing blows as I scramble out of reach.

“Astarion!” I plead, hoping beyond all hope that he can still hear me somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

My gaze fixes on Astarion’s captured wrist. The best option might be to cut it off. Astarion lives, minus a few fingers, and even that might be fixable with Shadowheart’s healing. My heart wrenches at the idea. It’s wishful thinking, at best. Astarion would likely never be able to wield a bow again.

That leaves waiting for backup. But the others are an entire floor below us and sleeping. They won’t know we’re missing for hours, and at the pace I’m keeping, the fight won’t last even a few more minutes. My arms feel halfway shredded by now.

My foot catches on the lip of a loose tile, slips. I stumble forward. Bloody nails rip across my cheek. Pain lances through the wound, drawing an involuntary cry from me, and blessedly, Astarion pauses in his tracks. Anguish registers in his features for a brief moment before it fades. He stumbles away from me, scraping crimson-tinted nails along his scalp so hard his hair comes away pink. He hunches over, fighting an internal battle and losing.

But it gives me the opening I need. To what end, I’m not certain, but I close the distance between us, twist both hands behind his back, knock his knees out from under him, and force Astarion to the ground. The impact seems to shake the remaining consciousness from him and he reverts to a snarling vampire spawn once more, writhing in my grip with superhuman strength.

I know I’m done for the moment he rips one arm free. Astarion twists around, and although I launch myself backwards, the action comes too late. A full set of fangs sinks into my shoulder. My momentum still carries me backwards and Astarion’s teeth shake loose, taking a chunk of my flesh with them.

I consider myself lucky. Had I been a fraction of a second slower, he would have bitten my neck instead.

Blood drips freely from the wound in my shoulder. I limp away, shaking, before my back hits the wall and my knees give out. I slump to the ground.

Astarion lopes over to me with the gait of something feral. True terror strikes my heart, watching him advance towards me, defenseless and certain of my own demise. But nothing scares me quite so much as Astarion’s expression.

_Those are his eyes,_ my brain supplies pointlessly, gazing into their vacant pink depths. There is a unique dissonance in looking into someone’s face and not seeing them in it. And that loss feels more unbearable than death itself.

Astarion crouches before me. His hands grasp my shoulders, holding me immobile, digging into me so deeply I feel like my body will snap beneath the force. Yet his face lingers close to mine and stops. His eyes screw shut.

“No,” he all but whimpers, and I can feel one last piece of him in the way his grip loosens.

“Astarion,” I whisper, tears forming behind my eyes. This isn’t a fight he can win and we both know it.

Astarion’s hands shake.

“I love you,” I tell him, because it is the truth. Because it needs to be said. And because if Astarion ever returns to himself, it is the one piece of me I hope he carries with him. That he was worthy. That he was loved.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rain falls across the valley in a thin mist as we settle into camp for the night. I fumble with the last of the tent supports, willing it with all my might to stay planted in the ground and swearing profusely when it tips over. These damn things are cheaper than snake oil potions and half as useful. But as much of a pain as they are to set up, getting rained on the whole night is slightly less appealing.

My shoulders slump forward in relief when the tent finally stands up on its own after an embarrassing amount of adjustments. The action pulls on the injured muscles in my shoulder, eliciting a hiss of pain before I can stifle it.

You would think that the closer we get to Baldur’s Gate, the less we would have to fight for our lives. But bandits have been a staple in our every day travels since we left the business at the druid grove behind. It turns out getting body slammed isn’t great for shoulder joint health.

“So, darling, do you have a bigger martyr complex than I thought or do you just enjoy running around injured?” Astarion’s voice filters to me over the gentle hum of rain against the dirt. He moves to my side like he’s about to lean one arm against the tent, but it nearly gives way under his touch and he thinks better of it.

“Hm?” I straighten my posture, biting back another wince when my shoulder protests. Astarion catches the action, eyebrow raising as he glances at the wound. “It’s nothing serious. I’m fine.”

Astarion reaches for me and in a single swift motion, pinches my shoulder hard between his thumb and forefinger. Pain erupts like he dug knives in instead. I yelp and slap his hand away, scowling as Astarion retreats a safe distance and anchors his hands on his hips.

“Clearly,” he retorts, brow furrowed in something genuine that looks out of place on him. “Why don’t you go pester Shadowheart about it? I’m sure she’d fix you up.”

I glance over at one of the other tents, illuminated by a figure bustling about and casting inside. I bite my lip.

“She’s overextended keeping Gale breathing as it is. I don’t want to tax her further.”

“Ah, yes. Gale does tend to get impaled in most fights. And not in the fun way,” Astarion muses on a sigh. “You’d think he’d have heard of these useful things called defensive spells.”

_Rude,_ I think, but can’t help smiling. Astarion mirrors the action, the expression making him look younger, more boyish. He pulls open the tent flap and ushers me inside.

“After you,” he says in a low voice.

Surprise lances through me at the request. Does he really want…here? Now? In _camp_? I look around the rest of the clearing before obliging. The others are all either sleeping or otherwise occupied, so it’s not likely they’ll notice. My heart flutters in my chest as I duck into the tent.

Astarion follows me a moment later, shoulders stooped to accommodate the low ceiling. We are practically chest to chest in the tiny space. I lean in closer, drinking in the scent of rain on his skin and something uniquely his own, like blood but sweeter. I plant a kiss on his neck, lapping up a raindrop with my tongue before trailing more gentle kisses along his jaw. Astarion shudders with pleasure but does not reach for me.

“You can tease me all you like, darling, but we’ll not go further tonight,” he says.

“Oh, sorry.” I pull back, blushing furiously.

Astarion takes in my expression with palpable amusement before planting both hands on my waist and spinning me away from him.

“Lie down,” he orders.

I glance over my shoulder at him, perplexed.

“Why?”

“Must you know everything?” Astarion sighs, but he sounds oddly more flustered than annoyed. “Just do as I say. I won’t bite.”

I stare at him for several long moments. It takes Astarion a second to analyze my expression before he bursts into laughter.

“Well, not this time,” he amends.

Fighting a smirk, I kneel down and snuggle into my bedroll, lying flat on my stomach with my chin resting on folded hands.

“Happy?” I ask, still suspicious.

“Ecstatic,” Astarion kneels at my side, legs brushing my stomach, before he pauses and remains still for a long time. He mumbles something under his breath that sounds vaguely like _how in the hells do people do this._

I tilt my head in Astarion’s direction to see he looks truly lost, hands stretched out before him but seemingly no idea what to do with them. He catches me looking and his expression hardens in an instant.

“You’re staring,” he snaps.

I face straight ahead again, rolling my eyes. _What is he planning that has him so flustered?_

Astarion hesitates in silence for several more moments. I consider turning around to ask him if he’s okay before he finally makes contact, hands pressing on my uninjured shoulder. He kneads into the muscles there, melting away the tension I hadn’t realized I’d retained. His fingertips probe any lingering knots before moving on. There is something sensual about the slow dance of his fingers, their firmness and playful lightness in turns, but they never wander. Never prod, never ask for more.

There is something far more intimate about it than I expected. A sense of peace worms its way into my chest, serenity that I haven’t experienced since before my capture on the Nautiloid ship. And by the time Astarion has migrated to my lower back, I am lulled so far into drowsiness that a moan slips unbidden past my lips. I don’t even realize it until Astarion chokes on a laugh.

“I’ll take that as a good sign,” he murmurs, a smile clear in his voice.

I let out a grunt of affirmation muffled by the bedroll.

Astarion slowly works his way up the other side of my back but stops once he reaches my injured shoulder. At first I think he will draw back entirely, but his hands return a moment later, pressing down on my injury much lighter than before. It still burns, however, and I stiffen with a sharp intake of breath.

The weight of Astarion’s hands vanishes.

“Bloody hells, _tell me_ if I hurt you,” he snaps.

“Was my cry of pain not clear enough for you?” I huff, still through gritted teeth. The pain subsides after a moment and I sink back into the bedroll.

Tension crackles in the air for another moment before Astarion sighs, his hands returning to the injured area. His touch is feather-light this time, so tender as he moves that I feel no pain at all. It seems so far removed from the affection he showed before. Normally he holds nothing back, grasping with lips and tongue and teeth. Now he seems tentative, and if I didn’t know better, afraid.

Little by little, the soreness in my shoulder fades. The coolness of his fingers feels like a damp cloth on skin addled by fever. It soothes me towards sleep faster than I care to admit.

“Thank you, Astarion,” I whisper.

Astarion’s hands pause. He says nothing in return, but after a moment resumes his careful ministrations. Conscious thought on my part does not stir again until Astarion draws away one final time, rising to his feet and moving to exit the tent. I register from the silence of his footsteps that he believes I am asleep.

I turn over just enough to face Astarion as I call him back.

“Wait.”

Astarion stops, turns.

“Stay?” The words feel like shards of glass, like vulnerability.

Surprise emerges full-force in Astarion’s expression. His mouth opens and closes in quick succession, for once bereft of wit. He recovers his composure with a shake of his head.

“You look ravishing, darling, but I’m afraid I need to hunt down something suitable before the night is out. I’ve been peckish all day,” he explains.

_Of course._ I try to school my expression, but Astarion picks up on my disappointment and his glibness returns.

“I’ll see you when I get back, I’m sure,” he purrs. “Sleep tight.”

The moonlight turns him to a work of art in the entryway. He looks back one final time, outlined by the glow of silver starlight, and something breaks in his expression before he walks away.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Recognition sparks in Astarion’s eyes, mere inches from mine, awareness returning like opening a door only to step into a blizzard. Desperation seeps from every pore in his body. His breathing comes in shallow gasps. But he is here, the man I love behind those fuchsia eyes, and it’s all I can do not to sob with relief.

Astarion releases my bitten shoulder, blood dripping from his palm, and holds his bound wrist between us.

“Take it,” he rasps. The chains wind impossibly tighter, biting into his skin with vengeance. Trying to take control again. Astarion cries out, in pain or frustration I can’t be sure.

_I will not let you take him._ I reach for Astarion’s hand, gripping the metal hard and pulling with all my strength. Astarion does the same in reverse, trying to scramble back, but the magic holds fast. I think for a horrible moment that our arms will break before the chains do.

And then one of the metal links snaps.

Astarion flies backward, the continued momentum sending him sprawling across the floor. The crystal sits in my palm. Cazador’s voice howls from the other side, vicious and inhuman and something I will hear in my nightmares for a long time to come.

I lunge forward and launch the chain far across the room. It hits the opposite wall and clatters to the ground, its coils still and unassuming. Cazador’s voice fades with the contact severed.

Astarion regains his bearings enough to stumble to his feet. He stalks to where the crystal fell, raises one foot, and stomps on it with a resounding _clang_ that shakes the room. The crystal gives way and shatters, a thousand fragments skittering across the tiles in every direction. The rigidity in Astarion’s posture falls away.

Relief hits in a single titanic wave and I collapse onto the floor, fighting to catch my breath but it is never quite enough. Not until Astarion drops down beside me, lying close enough to touch if I tried. I don’t. Not yet.

Astarion’s chest heaves with every breath. He stares unblinking at the ceiling, terror etched into his face. Every inch of him is shaking.

I reach across the space between us and rest my hand over one of his, loose and tentative over a closed fist. Astarion turns his head away.

“He will pay for this,” I whisper. “We will hunt him down and make sure he _never_ hurts you again.”

This finally seems to get through to him. Astarion rolls over to face me, slowly, like he thinks Cazador’s voice will snatch him back at any moment. He places one hand against my cheek where his nails cut through, stroking along it with one gentle finger.

Astarion opens his mouth to say something, but only silence comes. He draws a breath and tries again.

“Are you all right?”

My heart aches at the tremor in his voice. I smile at him, trying to ignore the quiver in my bottom lip.

“Yeah,” I choke out, but it ends up sounding more like a sob.

Astarion’s gaze catches on the bite wound in my shoulder and something between guilt and regret etches into his face. He shifts so one hand is planted on either side of me and leans close, the tense line of his body nearly pressed against mine. He touches his lips to the space just above the wound where the skin is not so tender. It feels like the brush of a feather before he withdraws, landing flat on his back beside me with a grunt.

The silence passes like eons while our breathing slows.

“That was a clever ruse,” Astarion says eventually. A tinge of his usual humor peeks through. “Quite the confession. It was very—” He flourishes one hand while searching for the word. “—theatrical.”

My heart stutters painfully. I draw in a rattling breath before saying the words that stick so heavily on my tongue.

“And what if I meant it?”

Astarion seems to all but stop breathing. He turns on his side to face me, shock written in every inch of him. It’s as if time stops for him right there. A thousand thoughts flicker in his eyes at once, passing too quick to distinguish.

I refuse to look away.

“Love is just the giving,” I say softly, offering him the truest smile I have felt in a long time. “I don’t expect you to say it back.”

Something splinters the neutrality in Astarion’s face. But before I can define it, he pulls me in close to his chest, his breaths misting against my temple. I hold him fiercely too. I feel the raised lines of scars when my arms caress his back, the wild pounding of his heart against my ear. And for a single moment, nothing exists outside the rhythm of our breathing.

“What fools we are,” Astarion sighs.

Neither of us lets go until long after the first hues of sunlight filter through the open window.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated. Sending hugs to anyone who needs them!


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